Ok, I know y'all must be gettin' tired of hearin' about my dang bed but I really have to tell you one last thing and that's it, I promise.
As I've noted in other posts, sleep has been a real issue for me for several years. Go to sleep fine and do well for about 4 hours and then it was toss and turn and do the 'clock watch' thing. "If I go to sleep now, I'll have 3 more hours in." "If I go to sleep now, I'll have 2 hours in." And so on until the alarm went off. Great. Makes for a really long day afer that. And a very cranky and baggy eyed Deb.
At first I thought it was stress related from my job. But my job is stressful enough, and I've been doing it long enough, that it shouldn't be stressin' me as much anymore. And that's true now that I have the answer. YES, it's the bed! seriously. I mean SERIOUSLY. I didn't comment on it at first because I was scared that it was a passing thing and I didn't want to jinx it, but it's true. This bed has been my sleep salvation for what is it now? 2 weeks.
Honest, Gentle Reader, if I awaken in the night and have to use the facilities, I end up going right back to sleep which, (honest to The Diety at Hand) is a GREAT thing.
And that will be the end of the 'bed thing'. So if you find the jingle in your jeans to do it, go ahead; it's definitely worth the sheckels.
Thanks for listening.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
From the Op/Ed pages of the Calgary Herald
From what I'm reading aroud the blogosphere, this looks exactly like what some of my compatriots are experiencing.
I thought of a great headline . . . but I forgot
When I am writing and suddenly think of a new topic, I hit Ctrl-T, which opens a fresh window on the computer.
This operation requires two fingers and takes three seconds, max, but to my brain, it sometimes presents an insuperable distraction.
My face becomes as blank as the screen I am looking at.
The new idea, whatever it was, is . . . gone. This is the modern equivalent of the classic old-fogeyism of walking into a room and immediately forgetting why you went there. I do that, too.
I'm not complaining, really. If you can banish your terror over it, shortterm memory deficit can be a source of entertainment, especially when two similarly afflicted people engage each other, which happens almost every time I am on the phone with my editor, Tom the Butcher.
I am 59. Tom is 56. Our conversations go like this:
Tom: We need to write a headline for your column.
Me: Which column?
Tom: The one you sent me yesterday.
Me: Oh.
Embarrassed silence.
Me: What was it about?
Embarrassed silence.
Tom: I was hoping you'd remember.
At this point, Tom and I try to work in concert to refresh our memories. It is an awkward, pathetic dance, like two turtles trying to mate with a rock.
Me: Was it about Jews?
Tom: I think it might have had the word "paradigm" in it.
Me: I think I wrote a lot of it in the bathroom.
Tom: I hate that word.
Me: "Bathroom?"
Tom: No. The, uh, one I just said.
Embarrassed silence. I was thinking about this the other day as I watched an old 60 Minutes segment about people who never forget anything. One of them was Marilu Henner, who I think may have starred in a 1980s sitcom whose name I can't recall, but I believe I used to watch.
If you give Marilu a random date from, say, 17 years ago, she can tell you what day of the week it was, what event was on the news, what she wore, what she ate, etc.
She and the others with super-memory seemed pretty smug about their powers, but I'm glad I don't have them.
They scare me.
Sometimes, it's good to forget things. Tom agrees that it's probably preferable to live in our constant state of semi-senescence than in the alternative:
Tom: We have to write a headline for your column.
Me: Let's just go with the same one we used on Sept. 4, 1986, when I last wrote about squid.
Tom: OK, done. Hey, remember the bikini ad that ran next to that column?
Me: I'll say! That's back when my prostate wasn't the size of a baked potato, and I could admire hot women without experiencing searing crotch pain.
Tom: Right. As I recall, on that day I still had 52,509 functioning hair follicles.
Me: I remember. You actually owned a comb. It was black.
Tom: The third tooth from the end was broken off.
Me: I know.
Tom: Hey, I just saw a rerun of Taxi, with Marilu Henner. Remember her?
Me: OW!
Gene Weingarten is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer with the Washington Post
Read more:
I thought of a great headline . . . but I forgot
When I am writing and suddenly think of a new topic, I hit Ctrl-T, which opens a fresh window on the computer.
This operation requires two fingers and takes three seconds, max, but to my brain, it sometimes presents an insuperable distraction.
My face becomes as blank as the screen I am looking at.
The new idea, whatever it was, is . . . gone. This is the modern equivalent of the classic old-fogeyism of walking into a room and immediately forgetting why you went there. I do that, too.
I'm not complaining, really. If you can banish your terror over it, shortterm memory deficit can be a source of entertainment, especially when two similarly afflicted people engage each other, which happens almost every time I am on the phone with my editor, Tom the Butcher.
I am 59. Tom is 56. Our conversations go like this:
Tom: We need to write a headline for your column.
Me: Which column?
Tom: The one you sent me yesterday.
Me: Oh.
Embarrassed silence.
Me: What was it about?
Embarrassed silence.
Tom: I was hoping you'd remember.
At this point, Tom and I try to work in concert to refresh our memories. It is an awkward, pathetic dance, like two turtles trying to mate with a rock.
Me: Was it about Jews?
Tom: I think it might have had the word "paradigm" in it.
Me: I think I wrote a lot of it in the bathroom.
Tom: I hate that word.
Me: "Bathroom?"
Tom: No. The, uh, one I just said.
Embarrassed silence. I was thinking about this the other day as I watched an old 60 Minutes segment about people who never forget anything. One of them was Marilu Henner, who I think may have starred in a 1980s sitcom whose name I can't recall, but I believe I used to watch.
If you give Marilu a random date from, say, 17 years ago, she can tell you what day of the week it was, what event was on the news, what she wore, what she ate, etc.
She and the others with super-memory seemed pretty smug about their powers, but I'm glad I don't have them.
They scare me.
Sometimes, it's good to forget things. Tom agrees that it's probably preferable to live in our constant state of semi-senescence than in the alternative:
Tom: We have to write a headline for your column.
Me: Let's just go with the same one we used on Sept. 4, 1986, when I last wrote about squid.
Tom: OK, done. Hey, remember the bikini ad that ran next to that column?
Me: I'll say! That's back when my prostate wasn't the size of a baked potato, and I could admire hot women without experiencing searing crotch pain.
Tom: Right. As I recall, on that day I still had 52,509 functioning hair follicles.
Me: I remember. You actually owned a comb. It was black.
Tom: The third tooth from the end was broken off.
Me: I know.
Tom: Hey, I just saw a rerun of Taxi, with Marilu Henner. Remember her?
Me: OW!
Gene Weingarten is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer with the Washington Post
Read more:
from my in box this morning, HT to Nobbs, a regular contributor
The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again invited readers to
take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or
changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are the winners:
1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.
2 Ignoranus : A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
3. Intaxicaton : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
4. Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
5. Bozone ( n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future
6. Foreploy : Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid..
7. Giraffiti : Vandalism spray-painted very, very high
8. Sarchasm : The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
9. Inoculatte : To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
10. Osteopornosis : A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
11. Karmageddon : It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
13. Glibido : All talk and no action.
14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
The Washington Post has also published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words.
And the winners are:
1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent, adj. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.
7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men
Monday, March 28, 2011
Spring 2005
Shortly after I got the puppies, it started to rain. And didn't stop. Now I'm not talking about gentle April showers that are supposed to bring May flowers, I'm talking about torrential down pours. It rained for the proverbial 40 days and 40 nights. I kept looking toward the mountains and saying 'There's a lot of snow in them there hills' and getting concerned about flooding.
I listen to the radio every day at work and on the 6th of June there was an emergency broadcast of a flood watch for Okotoks and area which is where I lived at the time. I talked to my boss and told him that I may have to leave early, but would keep an ear on the situation. Because I had been so concerned about flooding, I had already made arrangements for the horses and myself if I had to evacuate. When I got home that day, I called my landlord to discuss the situation and he told me "This property has been in the family for the last 50 years and it hasn't flooded yet." In the grand scheme of things, 50 years is the blink of an eye and I was still concerned but carried on as usual.
When I went down the hall to go to bed that night, I put the puppies in their crate (they didn't need to be roaming around all night) and they wouldn't 'settle'. I couldn't figure out why until I went to get undressed and crawl in to bed. I looked out the window and saw water in the driveway. 'Holy crap!' I ran down the hall and looked out the kitchen window and saw water standing on the ball diamond that was right next door. Double 'Holy crap!' I immediately got on the phone and called Kaye. She said that she and her husband Dave would be right down. I called the guy where the horses were going and let him know what was happening and that we were on the way. I ran out, hooked up the horse trailer and Kaye arrived. In the time that this all occured, the water in the back yard had risen to from visible to ankle deep. Dave went to the basement and started boosting stuff off the floor and Kaye and I went out to get the horses.
Now Murphy was never the easiest to catch, it always took a little time and patience, but that night she pretty much stuffed her head in the halter, almost like 'get me the hell out of here.' I handed her off to Kaye and captured Indiana. By the time we headed back across the yard, the water was now shin deep and rising fast. Not only was Murphy a little hard to catch, but she could be difficult to load too. I had worked with her a little after the Parelli clinic I had taken and she was better, but not 100% yet and when I caught up with Kaye she was trying to run over top of her to get in the trailer. What a suprise that was. We got everybody loaded and headed off to Abe's place to drop them off.
When we got there, Abe was asleep on the couch, but I managed to rouse him and he told me which pen to put them in and where I could put the trailer but that he wanted a ride to town; his buddy was in the pub and he was buying. Ok, I have a river running through my house and you want a ride to the pub?
By the time we got back to the house the water was thigh deep and I went in, grabbed some clothes, rescued the puppies and Harley and off we went to Kaye's house. The landlord spent the night with 2 sump pumps running to keep the water to a managable level in the basement and I spent the night at Kaye's.
I got back in the house a couple of days later and we all thought that all was well. The FHU happened to be home the weekend after all this happened and suggested that we go and get the girls and bring them home, but my little voice was telling me that it wasn't a good idea. About a week later, here we go again with the emergency broadcast. Ok, I'll keep an eye on it.
I had a couple of beers and ended up going to bed at my usual time when something awakened me around eleven. I went to the window and looked. Not good, there's water flowing across the driveway. Crap. There's water flowing through the ball diamond. DOUBLE CRAP. Ok, we're not getting off so easy this time. I called the landlord and he told me not to go anywhere, the fire department was on the way. Ok, the water was up to the bumper of my truck, and if I had left then all would have been good. Nope, the landlord said the the fire department was on the way, so I wasn't going anywhere. Well, I waited. And waited. They finally showed up at midnight. I had been watching the water get higher and higher and getting more and more concerned. When they finally arrived they knocked on the front door (which I never used, I was waiting for them on the landing out the back) and asked me "How many occupants in the house?". "One, and three dogs." An incredulous "Three?!?". To which I replied "Don't worry, the old dog will go in one crate and the puppies will go in another." And away we go.
They took the old dog across the yard in the crate and loaded her in to the bucket of a front end loader and then in to a pickup that was out on the road and came back and got the puppies. It wasn't until I was standing on the front step, watching the puppies being loaded in to the bucket that I realized that I could never go 'home' again. I also started to cry as I watched. How scared were the girls? Where's my mom? and where are you taking me?
Two firefighters came back to get me (at least they could have sent good looking ones!) and we headed across the front yard. Down one step, water up to my ankles. Down another, water up to my calves. Down the last step, water almost up to my crotch. Ok, my legs are 36" long. That tells you how deep it was in my front yard. I was escorted across the yard and very unceremoniously deposited in the bucket of the front end loader and then it was off to Kaye's again. Being as it was now about 1 in the morning, Kaye had gone to bed, so I let myself in, brought the girls in and crashed myself.
Unfortunately there was nothing that the landlord could do this time; the river was rising too quickly and it ended up being 6" shy of the floor joists. Everything in the basement was a write-off. We had a stand-up freezer down there that was full of meat and stuff. I had a whole load of dress shirts waiting to go in the wash, and there were several boxes of pictures that also didn't survive. But you know what? That was all stuff, and stuff can be replaced. We all got out alive and safely.
At that time the puppies were about 10 weeks old and we had ben starting to make some head-way house training. Unfortunately while I was at Kaye's the girls spent a lot of time in a crate during the day, so by the time we got situated in a new location, they were a little 'un-broke' and we basically had to start over again. Gotta love Kaye though, we were there for 2 months and she had 3 of her own dogs and 2 of her children still at home, so it definitely was a housefull.
I listen to the radio every day at work and on the 6th of June there was an emergency broadcast of a flood watch for Okotoks and area which is where I lived at the time. I talked to my boss and told him that I may have to leave early, but would keep an ear on the situation. Because I had been so concerned about flooding, I had already made arrangements for the horses and myself if I had to evacuate. When I got home that day, I called my landlord to discuss the situation and he told me "This property has been in the family for the last 50 years and it hasn't flooded yet." In the grand scheme of things, 50 years is the blink of an eye and I was still concerned but carried on as usual.
When I went down the hall to go to bed that night, I put the puppies in their crate (they didn't need to be roaming around all night) and they wouldn't 'settle'. I couldn't figure out why until I went to get undressed and crawl in to bed. I looked out the window and saw water in the driveway. 'Holy crap!' I ran down the hall and looked out the kitchen window and saw water standing on the ball diamond that was right next door. Double 'Holy crap!' I immediately got on the phone and called Kaye. She said that she and her husband Dave would be right down. I called the guy where the horses were going and let him know what was happening and that we were on the way. I ran out, hooked up the horse trailer and Kaye arrived. In the time that this all occured, the water in the back yard had risen to from visible to ankle deep. Dave went to the basement and started boosting stuff off the floor and Kaye and I went out to get the horses.
Now Murphy was never the easiest to catch, it always took a little time and patience, but that night she pretty much stuffed her head in the halter, almost like 'get me the hell out of here.' I handed her off to Kaye and captured Indiana. By the time we headed back across the yard, the water was now shin deep and rising fast. Not only was Murphy a little hard to catch, but she could be difficult to load too. I had worked with her a little after the Parelli clinic I had taken and she was better, but not 100% yet and when I caught up with Kaye she was trying to run over top of her to get in the trailer. What a suprise that was. We got everybody loaded and headed off to Abe's place to drop them off.
When we got there, Abe was asleep on the couch, but I managed to rouse him and he told me which pen to put them in and where I could put the trailer but that he wanted a ride to town; his buddy was in the pub and he was buying. Ok, I have a river running through my house and you want a ride to the pub?
By the time we got back to the house the water was thigh deep and I went in, grabbed some clothes, rescued the puppies and Harley and off we went to Kaye's house. The landlord spent the night with 2 sump pumps running to keep the water to a managable level in the basement and I spent the night at Kaye's.
I got back in the house a couple of days later and we all thought that all was well. The FHU happened to be home the weekend after all this happened and suggested that we go and get the girls and bring them home, but my little voice was telling me that it wasn't a good idea. About a week later, here we go again with the emergency broadcast. Ok, I'll keep an eye on it.
I had a couple of beers and ended up going to bed at my usual time when something awakened me around eleven. I went to the window and looked. Not good, there's water flowing across the driveway. Crap. There's water flowing through the ball diamond. DOUBLE CRAP. Ok, we're not getting off so easy this time. I called the landlord and he told me not to go anywhere, the fire department was on the way. Ok, the water was up to the bumper of my truck, and if I had left then all would have been good. Nope, the landlord said the the fire department was on the way, so I wasn't going anywhere. Well, I waited. And waited. They finally showed up at midnight. I had been watching the water get higher and higher and getting more and more concerned. When they finally arrived they knocked on the front door (which I never used, I was waiting for them on the landing out the back) and asked me "How many occupants in the house?". "One, and three dogs." An incredulous "Three?!?". To which I replied "Don't worry, the old dog will go in one crate and the puppies will go in another." And away we go.
They took the old dog across the yard in the crate and loaded her in to the bucket of a front end loader and then in to a pickup that was out on the road and came back and got the puppies. It wasn't until I was standing on the front step, watching the puppies being loaded in to the bucket that I realized that I could never go 'home' again. I also started to cry as I watched. How scared were the girls? Where's my mom? and where are you taking me?
Two firefighters came back to get me (at least they could have sent good looking ones!) and we headed across the front yard. Down one step, water up to my ankles. Down another, water up to my calves. Down the last step, water almost up to my crotch. Ok, my legs are 36" long. That tells you how deep it was in my front yard. I was escorted across the yard and very unceremoniously deposited in the bucket of the front end loader and then it was off to Kaye's again. Being as it was now about 1 in the morning, Kaye had gone to bed, so I let myself in, brought the girls in and crashed myself.
Unfortunately there was nothing that the landlord could do this time; the river was rising too quickly and it ended up being 6" shy of the floor joists. Everything in the basement was a write-off. We had a stand-up freezer down there that was full of meat and stuff. I had a whole load of dress shirts waiting to go in the wash, and there were several boxes of pictures that also didn't survive. But you know what? That was all stuff, and stuff can be replaced. We all got out alive and safely.
At that time the puppies were about 10 weeks old and we had ben starting to make some head-way house training. Unfortunately while I was at Kaye's the girls spent a lot of time in a crate during the day, so by the time we got situated in a new location, they were a little 'un-broke' and we basically had to start over again. Gotta love Kaye though, we were there for 2 months and she had 3 of her own dogs and 2 of her children still at home, so it definitely was a housefull.
I damaged my push-me pull-you
A little over a week ago I was watchin' the tube when my Jazz pushed the blanket that drapes over the back of the couch off it and on to the heat register. Not a big deal, she's done it before. I reached over the back of the couch to pick it up and stretched and stretched a little more 'cause my arms are just noooot quite long enough to out and out grab it and put it back. That second stretch, the hard part of the back of the couch must have caught me right between two ribs because when I finally got my fingertips on it all of a sudden the worst pain struck me. Dang, now what? I didn't think too much more of it until the next morning when I was sitting here reading the paper. What the heck had I done? At first I thought that I was having a heart attack and then it was 'Duh, the pain's on the right side, not the left, ya ditz'. And then I remembered the move of the day before. Nice.
Well I'm still reminded. You don't really realize how the body is connected to the rib cage by a whole lot of muscles and tendons until you mess it up. It hurts to try to roll over and get out of bed. It hurts to sit up straight and it hurts to slouch. It hurts to pull up your pants and it hurts to pull them down. It hurts to push the door latched and it hurts to pull the door closed behind you. And dang, don't, and I mean DON'T, cough or sneeze!
I cracked a rib once before when I was feeding the horses and hooked my toe in a pallet we were using to keep the hay off the concrete floor in the feed room. In that instance I landed on my rib cage on a 4x4 that was in the doorway and grain went flying everywhere. Steve the pot-bellied pig had a hey day. At least the grain didn't go totally to waste.
The only thing is I can't, for the life of me, remember exactly how long this is going to last.
Ah well, this too, shall pass.
Well I'm still reminded. You don't really realize how the body is connected to the rib cage by a whole lot of muscles and tendons until you mess it up. It hurts to try to roll over and get out of bed. It hurts to sit up straight and it hurts to slouch. It hurts to pull up your pants and it hurts to pull them down. It hurts to push the door latched and it hurts to pull the door closed behind you. And dang, don't, and I mean DON'T, cough or sneeze!
I cracked a rib once before when I was feeding the horses and hooked my toe in a pallet we were using to keep the hay off the concrete floor in the feed room. In that instance I landed on my rib cage on a 4x4 that was in the doorway and grain went flying everywhere. Steve the pot-bellied pig had a hey day. At least the grain didn't go totally to waste.
The only thing is I can't, for the life of me, remember exactly how long this is going to last.
Ah well, this too, shall pass.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
At least I'm in good company
Jennifer Aniston and Spinsterhood 2.0
Used to be that the most famous old maid in the world was a gawky cartoon character who fell hard for a man whose affections were largely devoted to canned spinach. Olive Oyl was a woman of open heart and flapper feet, an awkward eyelashbatting coquette with skinny legs and a tight bun, but try as she might, she never could land her pipe-puffing sailor man, Popeye.
Used to be that old maids were the sad-sack left-behinds, the dried-up shells who drifted on the edges of society while neighbours on street corners whispered about their sad fate, about their lonely days as pale accounting clerks and midi-skirted kindergarten teachers, about their lonely nights behind drawn curtains in quiet apartments, comforted by cats and, sometimes, a favourite niece.
Believe me, Olive Oyl, I ain't, not by a long shot. And that line about being 'comforted by cat and, sometimes, a favorite niece?' No way. I'm gonna go down as the crazy old dog lady (and my favorite niece is my only niece. And she lives in Arizona).
Because in a world where love and marriage are the holy grail of societal harmony and personal fulfilment, there is surely nothing more pitiful than a woman who can't find a man.
But that was before Jennifer Aniston became the poster girl for Spinsterhood 2.0.
And I'm very glad she did. I don't feel that I should be pitied for being single. What the hell is wrong with it? The coffee cup that I leave on the counter in the morning is mine and I know that it hasn't magically multiplied at some point in the day. The 6 or 8 beer in the fridge when I leave are still going to be there when I get home. Yes, it's a struggle some times and I have to call on friends more often than I like (I've been accused of being independent to a fault), or paying someone to do things that may be chores that would, in a relationship, be shared, but I'm ok with that too.
When I was in my early 20's, I knew that I didn't want to get married unless I had a very strong relationship, (which we all know doesn't happen too often, we're not quite mature enough yet) and that I didn't want to have kids unless I had a very strong marriage.
When I was in my 30's, I was too busy getting through my electrical apprenticeship to be bothered. Can you see a pregnant electrician on a construction site, up on a ladder? Oh ya, I dated and fooled around, but that was about it.
And then... And then I was getting later on in my 30's. I had finished my apprenticeship and was now a journeyman electrician and all of a sudden it reached up and, slapped me in the face. Here I was, pushing 40, and still single. Sure, I had lived with some men, but it had never turned into 'the thing'. And so, when my friend of 20 years asked me to be his roommate I said sure. The next thing you know, we're getting married and not too long after that, divorced. Never marry your friends (or do 'the nasty' with them), it rarely works. You were friends that long for a reason, you knew it was best that way.
...a shift that has seen single adults -women mostly -outnumbering married ones in Canadian households for the first time.
...and it's one that is shared with our sisters to the south, where recent U.S. Census figures revealed that 51 per cent of adult women in that country were unmarried.
...Or put another way, single women now outnumber married women.
...If Aniston, who has beauty, wealth and fame but still no love, is riding the crest of this demographic wave, the millions of women who are surfing anonymously in the shallows are oddly comforted in knowing that she is helping redefine the once-pitied profile of the unmarried woman.
I am on par with Jennifer Aniston? Far from it. She's younger and better looking and has a whole lot more money than I do, but you know what? I'm content with where I'm at. I have 'enough'. I'll be happy with what I have.
And if 'the thing' comes along, I'll be happy with that too, but don't be looking for me on eHatrmony any time soon.
Read the rest here.
Used to be that old maids were the sad-sack left-behinds, the dried-up shells who drifted on the edges of society while neighbours on street corners whispered about their sad fate, about their lonely days as pale accounting clerks and midi-skirted kindergarten teachers, about their lonely nights behind drawn curtains in quiet apartments, comforted by cats and, sometimes, a favourite niece.
Believe me, Olive Oyl, I ain't, not by a long shot. And that line about being 'comforted by cat and, sometimes, a favorite niece?' No way. I'm gonna go down as the crazy old dog lady (and my favorite niece is my only niece. And she lives in Arizona).
Because in a world where love and marriage are the holy grail of societal harmony and personal fulfilment, there is surely nothing more pitiful than a woman who can't find a man.
But that was before Jennifer Aniston became the poster girl for Spinsterhood 2.0.
And I'm very glad she did. I don't feel that I should be pitied for being single. What the hell is wrong with it? The coffee cup that I leave on the counter in the morning is mine and I know that it hasn't magically multiplied at some point in the day. The 6 or 8 beer in the fridge when I leave are still going to be there when I get home. Yes, it's a struggle some times and I have to call on friends more often than I like (I've been accused of being independent to a fault), or paying someone to do things that may be chores that would, in a relationship, be shared, but I'm ok with that too.
When I was in my early 20's, I knew that I didn't want to get married unless I had a very strong relationship, (which we all know doesn't happen too often, we're not quite mature enough yet) and that I didn't want to have kids unless I had a very strong marriage.
When I was in my 30's, I was too busy getting through my electrical apprenticeship to be bothered. Can you see a pregnant electrician on a construction site, up on a ladder? Oh ya, I dated and fooled around, but that was about it.
And then... And then I was getting later on in my 30's. I had finished my apprenticeship and was now a journeyman electrician and all of a sudden it reached up and, slapped me in the face. Here I was, pushing 40, and still single. Sure, I had lived with some men, but it had never turned into 'the thing'. And so, when my friend of 20 years asked me to be his roommate I said sure. The next thing you know, we're getting married and not too long after that, divorced. Never marry your friends (or do 'the nasty' with them), it rarely works. You were friends that long for a reason, you knew it was best that way.
...a shift that has seen single adults -women mostly -outnumbering married ones in Canadian households for the first time.
...and it's one that is shared with our sisters to the south, where recent U.S. Census figures revealed that 51 per cent of adult women in that country were unmarried.
...Or put another way, single women now outnumber married women.
...If Aniston, who has beauty, wealth and fame but still no love, is riding the crest of this demographic wave, the millions of women who are surfing anonymously in the shallows are oddly comforted in knowing that she is helping redefine the once-pitied profile of the unmarried woman.
I am on par with Jennifer Aniston? Far from it. She's younger and better looking and has a whole lot more money than I do, but you know what? I'm content with where I'm at. I have 'enough'. I'll be happy with what I have.
And if 'the thing' comes along, I'll be happy with that too, but don't be looking for me on eHatrmony any time soon.
Read the rest here.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
from my email inbox this morning
Thanks Tracey.
This should be required reading for every man, woman and child in the UK, United States of America, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.
"I'm 70 and I'm Tired"
By Robert A. Hall
I'm 70. Except for having 4 children with only a 6 week maternity period , I've worked, hard, since I was 17. Despite some health challenges, I still put in 50-hour weeks, and seldom called in sick in seven or eight years. I made a good salary, but I didn't inherit my job or my income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, retirement is hard, and I'm tired. Very tired.
I'm tired of being told that I have to "spread the wealth" to people who don't have my work ethic. I'm tired of being told the government will take the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy to earn it.
I'm tired of being told that Islam is a "Religion of Peace," when every day I can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and daughters for their family "honour"; of Muslims rioting over some slight offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren't "believers"; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning teenage rape victims to death for "adultery"; of Muslims mutilating the genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur'an and Shari'a law tells them to.
I'm tired of being told that out of "tolerance for other cultures" we must let Saudi Arabia use our oil money to fund mosques and mandrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in America and Canada , while no American nor Canadian group nor Australia is allowed to fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia to teach love and tolerance.
I'm tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global warming, which no one is allowed to debate.
I'm tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses while they tried to fight it off?
I'm tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of both parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught. I'm tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor.
I'm real tired of people who don't take responsibility for their lives and actions. I'm tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination or big-whatever for their problems.
Yes, I'm tired. But I'm also glad to be 70. Because, mostly, I'm not going to have to see the world these people are making. I'm just sorry for my grandchildren.
Robert A. Hall is a Marine Vietnam veteran who served five terms in the Massachusetts State Senate.
There is no way this will be widely publicised, unless each of us sends it on!
This is your chance to make a difference.
" I'm 70 and I'm tired.”
This should be required reading for every man, woman and child in the UK, United States of America, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.
"I'm 70 and I'm Tired"
By Robert A. Hall
I'm 70. Except for having 4 children with only a 6 week maternity period , I've worked, hard, since I was 17. Despite some health challenges, I still put in 50-hour weeks, and seldom called in sick in seven or eight years. I made a good salary, but I didn't inherit my job or my income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, retirement is hard, and I'm tired. Very tired.
I'm tired of being told that I have to "spread the wealth" to people who don't have my work ethic. I'm tired of being told the government will take the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy to earn it.
I'm tired of being told that Islam is a "Religion of Peace," when every day I can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and daughters for their family "honour"; of Muslims rioting over some slight offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren't "believers"; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning teenage rape victims to death for "adultery"; of Muslims mutilating the genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur'an and Shari'a law tells them to.
I'm tired of being told that out of "tolerance for other cultures" we must let Saudi Arabia use our oil money to fund mosques and mandrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in America and Canada , while no American nor Canadian group nor Australia is allowed to fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia to teach love and tolerance.
I'm tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global warming, which no one is allowed to debate.
I'm tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses while they tried to fight it off?
I'm tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of both parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting caught. I'm tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor.
I'm real tired of people who don't take responsibility for their lives and actions. I'm tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination or big-whatever for their problems.
Yes, I'm tired. But I'm also glad to be 70. Because, mostly, I'm not going to have to see the world these people are making. I'm just sorry for my grandchildren.
Robert A. Hall is a Marine Vietnam veteran who served five terms in the Massachusetts State Senate.
There is no way this will be widely publicised, unless each of us sends it on!
This is your chance to make a difference.
" I'm 70 and I'm tired.”
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The bed, Part 2
As I've written in this space before, one of the first things that I do when I get up in the morning is pull the covers up on the bed to keep Jazz off the sheets. Look what greeted me this morning when I went down the hall to see what she was up to.
The bed was made, Gentle Reader, honest!
Think that means the new bed gets the Jazz seal of approval?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Bravery of the Fukushima 50
'Please dad, come back alive'
Much has been written about the politeness of Japanese society as a virtue saving the nation from a descent into total chaos. In recent days, we have also witnessed the more noble qualities of honour and sacrifice. The Fukushima 50, as those fighting against a reactor meltdown have come to be known, have touched the world.
Made up of nuclear workers, firefighters and soldiers, they are a band of volunteers who, in a sense, represent the bushido code of the samurai, whose seven virtues include courage, honour and loyalty. They are all that stand in the way of a catastrophe, facing almost certain death if they fail.
One control room technician at the plant told a colleague he is willing to die. If it were not so real, it would read like the script of an action movie, with the "50" representing the heroic character who saves the world from the impending doom of an alien invasion or a life-ending meteor.
"My dad went to the nuclear plant. I never heard my mother cry so hard. People at the plant are struggling, sacrificing themselves to protect you. Please dad, come back alive," read a tweet by Twitter user @nekkonekonyaa.
Whatever the outcome of the disaster, the names of this mostly anonymous group should be etched forever in the conscience of humanity. About 200 workers are rotated in and out of the site in groups of 50, hoping to minimize their length of radiation exposure.
The daughter of one worker shared an e-mail that read, "My father is still working at the plant -they are running out of food . . . we think conditions are really tough. He says he's accepted his fate . . . much like a death sentence. . . ."
The volunteers take turns eating and sleeping in a decontaminated area about the size of an average living room. Helicopter pilots are also risking their lives dropping water on the plant.
If they do survive, they potentially face a future of leukemia, cataracts and sickness. The workers in 20 or 30 minutes are being exposed to radiation levels that a typical worker at a nuclear facility would accrue over an entire career, David Richardson, a professor of epidemiology at the University of North Carolina, told the BBC.
Sweating in bulky suits that are hot and uncomfortable, they are armed mainly with a sense of duty.
"It makes me cry," one person wrote in a real-time post on Google. Said another: "Superman wishes he had the courage that the 50 at Fukushima have . . . Our prayers are with them. . . ." As are ours.
© Copyright (c) The Calgary Herald
Read more:
Much has been written about the politeness of Japanese society as a virtue saving the nation from a descent into total chaos. In recent days, we have also witnessed the more noble qualities of honour and sacrifice. The Fukushima 50, as those fighting against a reactor meltdown have come to be known, have touched the world.
Made up of nuclear workers, firefighters and soldiers, they are a band of volunteers who, in a sense, represent the bushido code of the samurai, whose seven virtues include courage, honour and loyalty. They are all that stand in the way of a catastrophe, facing almost certain death if they fail.
One control room technician at the plant told a colleague he is willing to die. If it were not so real, it would read like the script of an action movie, with the "50" representing the heroic character who saves the world from the impending doom of an alien invasion or a life-ending meteor.
"My dad went to the nuclear plant. I never heard my mother cry so hard. People at the plant are struggling, sacrificing themselves to protect you. Please dad, come back alive," read a tweet by Twitter user @nekkonekonyaa.
Whatever the outcome of the disaster, the names of this mostly anonymous group should be etched forever in the conscience of humanity. About 200 workers are rotated in and out of the site in groups of 50, hoping to minimize their length of radiation exposure.
The daughter of one worker shared an e-mail that read, "My father is still working at the plant -they are running out of food . . . we think conditions are really tough. He says he's accepted his fate . . . much like a death sentence. . . ."
The volunteers take turns eating and sleeping in a decontaminated area about the size of an average living room. Helicopter pilots are also risking their lives dropping water on the plant.
If they do survive, they potentially face a future of leukemia, cataracts and sickness. The workers in 20 or 30 minutes are being exposed to radiation levels that a typical worker at a nuclear facility would accrue over an entire career, David Richardson, a professor of epidemiology at the University of North Carolina, told the BBC.
Sweating in bulky suits that are hot and uncomfortable, they are armed mainly with a sense of duty.
"It makes me cry," one person wrote in a real-time post on Google. Said another: "Superman wishes he had the courage that the 50 at Fukushima have . . . Our prayers are with them. . . ." As are ours.
© Copyright (c) The Calgary Herald
Read more:
Thursday, March 17, 2011
I bought a bed
I don't know exactly how it happens, but the majority of us never give much thought to where we spend 8 hours straight. Or maybe that's just me.
It wasn't until I was moving from the farm to the city that I realized exactly how bad my bed was. When we pulled the box spring from the bed frame and flipped it up, the very thin fabric that masked the workings of it had been totally ripped away and, being that I had purchased it over 20 years ago in the lower mainland where it's a whole lot less dry than it is here, the slats had all started to crack. Not the place for any vigorous sexual activities, I'll tell ya!
When I started my new job in September, it was located in a strip of commercial condos and right next door was a guy that I met while out having a smoke. We got to talking and I asked him what he did. He sells beds (ok, apparently the correct term is 'mattresses', but I never got that memo, they changed it without consultation or notification). For cheap. Of course I asked the question about how he could be so cheap (ok, cost effective) and he told me that these were brand new mattresses, that the packaging had been ripped and they had some dirt on them. They were straight from a warehouse in town and were being sold at a discount. Fine by me, a little dirt never hurt anybody.
Well, the old guy had a brain tumor last year, surgery, and is in remission now, but it's all getting too much for him. We ran in to each other the other day out smoking and he told me that he was closing up shop and only had 6 mattresses left, did I want to come and have a little look. Of course I did, how much? When I first met him it was around $600 and the other day it was $450! I had a look at a pillow-top model and asked how much for the box spring and he said that it was included. SOLD. I'll meet you tomorrow and we can do the paperwork and I'll pay you. Perfect, now all I needed to do was round up some help to get it off the truck and into the house. Of course I called Andy and he said that he'd be glad to help. A couple of emails the next day from him asking if I had picked up this bed and I told him that the guy hadn't been around all day. I finally found his card taped to the window of his shop (he works by appointment only), gave him a call and he said that he'd be there in :10, would I wait. No problem. He got there, we conducted our business and loaded it up for the ride home.
Well, Andy called me on the way home and asked me what time I wanted him to be there and I said as soon as would work for him, but not too long, it's starting to snow. Well, where's this bed? On the back of my truck. Ok, I'll see you shortly. When he got here he was beckoning me to come outside and I was thinking shouldn't we move the old bed first? Ok, I'll humor you. Went out and he was chastizing me for not even having the tie-down straps off yet, and undoing them. Ok if this is the way you want to play it, I'll go along. We brought the box spring in and he asked me where I wanted it. For a very intelligent man, he sometimes asks the most ridiculous questions. Shouldn't we take the old one out first? Oh, ya. Swapped things over and installed the new box spring and went out and hauled in the new mattress. As he was cutting the packaging off I really had to ask him where, exactly, he thought this bed was? I thought that you had bought it from your neighbor. Whereas I allowed as buying a used bed is akin to buying someone's used underwear. As we took it down the hall and started to put it on the box spring he had a look at the tuft work in the pillow top and said "Oh look, it's even got built-in toe holds!" We've been friends long enough that he really should know better. I'm totally useless when I start to laugh and I dropped my end. No harm done but every time I went to pick up my end I started to giggle again.
Anyway, I slept on that new bed last night and compared to the old one, it's like sleeping on a cloud. Best sleep I've had for quite a few years. Honest. (Only thing is, now I have to go buy new sheets. Which begs the question are the mattress dudes in bed with the sheet dudes?)
It wasn't until I was moving from the farm to the city that I realized exactly how bad my bed was. When we pulled the box spring from the bed frame and flipped it up, the very thin fabric that masked the workings of it had been totally ripped away and, being that I had purchased it over 20 years ago in the lower mainland where it's a whole lot less dry than it is here, the slats had all started to crack. Not the place for any vigorous sexual activities, I'll tell ya!
When I started my new job in September, it was located in a strip of commercial condos and right next door was a guy that I met while out having a smoke. We got to talking and I asked him what he did. He sells beds (ok, apparently the correct term is 'mattresses', but I never got that memo, they changed it without consultation or notification). For cheap. Of course I asked the question about how he could be so cheap (ok, cost effective) and he told me that these were brand new mattresses, that the packaging had been ripped and they had some dirt on them. They were straight from a warehouse in town and were being sold at a discount. Fine by me, a little dirt never hurt anybody.
Well, the old guy had a brain tumor last year, surgery, and is in remission now, but it's all getting too much for him. We ran in to each other the other day out smoking and he told me that he was closing up shop and only had 6 mattresses left, did I want to come and have a little look. Of course I did, how much? When I first met him it was around $600 and the other day it was $450! I had a look at a pillow-top model and asked how much for the box spring and he said that it was included. SOLD. I'll meet you tomorrow and we can do the paperwork and I'll pay you. Perfect, now all I needed to do was round up some help to get it off the truck and into the house. Of course I called Andy and he said that he'd be glad to help. A couple of emails the next day from him asking if I had picked up this bed and I told him that the guy hadn't been around all day. I finally found his card taped to the window of his shop (he works by appointment only), gave him a call and he said that he'd be there in :10, would I wait. No problem. He got there, we conducted our business and loaded it up for the ride home.
Well, Andy called me on the way home and asked me what time I wanted him to be there and I said as soon as would work for him, but not too long, it's starting to snow. Well, where's this bed? On the back of my truck. Ok, I'll see you shortly. When he got here he was beckoning me to come outside and I was thinking shouldn't we move the old bed first? Ok, I'll humor you. Went out and he was chastizing me for not even having the tie-down straps off yet, and undoing them. Ok if this is the way you want to play it, I'll go along. We brought the box spring in and he asked me where I wanted it. For a very intelligent man, he sometimes asks the most ridiculous questions. Shouldn't we take the old one out first? Oh, ya. Swapped things over and installed the new box spring and went out and hauled in the new mattress. As he was cutting the packaging off I really had to ask him where, exactly, he thought this bed was? I thought that you had bought it from your neighbor. Whereas I allowed as buying a used bed is akin to buying someone's used underwear. As we took it down the hall and started to put it on the box spring he had a look at the tuft work in the pillow top and said "Oh look, it's even got built-in toe holds!" We've been friends long enough that he really should know better. I'm totally useless when I start to laugh and I dropped my end. No harm done but every time I went to pick up my end I started to giggle again.
Anyway, I slept on that new bed last night and compared to the old one, it's like sleeping on a cloud. Best sleep I've had for quite a few years. Honest. (Only thing is, now I have to go buy new sheets. Which begs the question are the mattress dudes in bed with the sheet dudes?)
Friday, March 11, 2011
Puppies
After coming out of the vet's office dealing with the Buddha, I called my friend Kaye who is a groomer and worked at the local pet food store. When I told her what had just gone down she said to come by the shop, she knew that the Former-Husband-Unit was working out of town and that I was alone. When I got there we shared a hug and a few tears (she had groomed the Bood many times and really liked her) and Kaye said that I needed a beer. Of course I did, I had just put my best friend down. So, we went and had a couple and then she said that I had to see the puppies. What puppies? The ones that her friend Sherry had. Ok, but I'm not driving. So way we go to Sherry's house to see the puppies.
Sherry had a batch of German Shepherd puppies that were completely adorable and we got to talking and went out to where the puppies were (playing outside in an exercise pen). They were running around in circles and one puppy kept stopping right beside me every time 'round and that is how I ended up with Niki. Being as she wasn't ready to go just yet we had a couple of weeks with just Harley around and it broke my heart to watch her. I'd let her out and she'd just stand on the landing, staring in to space like 'Were's my friend?'.
When TFHU was out of town working, we had a ritual when he was home of going to the local diner for breakfast Saturday mornings. I would scan the paper and we would talk about things that were going on when I got to the classifieds one morning shortly after putting a down payment on Niki. Guess what I saw? An ad for Rottweiller puppies. I sooooo wanted another one after having the Bood. So we made the call and went to look. Just to look, right? How wrong is that. When we got to the breeder's place she only had males of her own litter, but 2 females from a bitch that she had sold to a gal in Saskatchewan who had to move and asked the breeder to move these puppies for her. Turns out Saskatchewan had bred the bitch to a local dog who was supposed to be registered (or registerable) and he wasn't either. OOPS. Ok, these puppies are purebred but unregisterable. They're also undersized. Jazz was half the size of the breeder's boys and her sister was half the size of her. As soon as I saw her the first thing out of my mouth was 'Jazz'. She turned and looked at me and in typical Rotti fashion carried on her merry little way. My heart melted and the decision was made to go back to town, get the cash and come back to pick up the puppy. Now we have a Rotti puppy and a Shepherd puppy. We went back, picked her up and put her behind the seat of the truck with Niki and that's when I realised exactly how small she was. Niki was born the 8th of March and Jazz was born the 13th. 5 days difference, half the size. Of course I had to stop at the shop and show her off to Kaye who said that she most definitely had a belly full of worms. Yup, enough worms in her that her coat was horrid and her belly was big enough that she looked like a watermelon with feet. Poor baby. We slammed her with some wormer and off we toodled home.
I'll tell you, raising 2 puppies at the same time gave me a whole new appreciation of mothers of twins. One would be over chewing on the speaker wires and the other would be relieving themself on the floor. Which one to go after first? Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Not going to though, these two will pass about the same age and I firmly believe that they're happier with company, so I'll get another one soon and hope to heaven that the girls don't go at the same time. I read about a guy that got a new dog every 5 years so that he had the old dog, the mid dog and the puppy; the older ones kinda showing the puppy the ropes. Good philosophy.
Anyway, this is a big ol' 'Happy 6th Birthday' to the girls (they even got birthday cards from the local Petsmart, how cool is that ?).
 |
| Niki |
 |
| Jazz |
Can you guess which is my favorite (even tough I try not to do it)?
damn bloody bank
In 2004 TFHU and I bought a piece of property half way between Nanton and Vulcan. This 98 acre piece had a converted 2 car garage on it that qualified it as a 'house' so we didn't have to come up with 20% down that is required in Canada. The plan was to save money and build a house on it but TFHU had a spending problem that ended up being the reason that we split.
When we split, it was fairly amicable; he got the farm and I kept the furniture and the dogs (fine by me, he couldn't look after himself, never mind the dogs). We made an appointment at the bank to make everything right and the banker-lady told us that they couldn't just take me off the mortgage without me being taken off the title. Ok, now what? She knew a lawyer there in Nanton that could probably get us in right away so we called him and he got us in. Back to the bank where we signed the paperwork and I was taken off the mortgage, right? WRONG. 3 years go by and his mortgage payment is taken out of my account! I blew a nut on the bank and ended up getting my money back. It happened another time and I got it straightened out a second time.
Fast forward to last Friday when I stopped to get my weekly libations at the local beer store and I pull out my bank card. Insufficient funds. Great big ol' WTF? Try my savings account, same thing. Now I'm in a panic. I got home and called my accounts up on the 'net and both accounts are totally empty. Zero, zilch, not even a penny in either one. This is 4:30 in the afternoon, how much help do you think I'm gonna get at that time on a Friday? I got on the blower right away to find out what was going on. It seems that IJIT hasn't paid for a while and because he also hasn't gone and applied for the mortgage on his own, I'm still on it and still liable for it. AND they scooped close to a grand out of my accounts to make it right (with them). I've been on the phone with them for most of the week and it looks like I'm not going to get my money back. The mortgage has gone to collections and the property will probably be seized and sold and because my name is no longer on the title, whatever they get above what's owing goes directly to puss-nuts. The last gal that I spoke with on the phone told me that we were both getting Demand Letters regarding the mortgage. Perfect. Just what I need. Seems it never rains, it pours.
You know, I'm not a banker, never professed to be, but when the banker is sitting across the desk from me telling me what I have to do and I do it, I believe what they've told me. I also told the gal on the phone that the person that created this whole fiasco should be FIRED. Not now, but right F***in' now.
I think that I have to make an appointment with a lawyer.
When we split, it was fairly amicable; he got the farm and I kept the furniture and the dogs (fine by me, he couldn't look after himself, never mind the dogs). We made an appointment at the bank to make everything right and the banker-lady told us that they couldn't just take me off the mortgage without me being taken off the title. Ok, now what? She knew a lawyer there in Nanton that could probably get us in right away so we called him and he got us in. Back to the bank where we signed the paperwork and I was taken off the mortgage, right? WRONG. 3 years go by and his mortgage payment is taken out of my account! I blew a nut on the bank and ended up getting my money back. It happened another time and I got it straightened out a second time.
Fast forward to last Friday when I stopped to get my weekly libations at the local beer store and I pull out my bank card. Insufficient funds. Great big ol' WTF? Try my savings account, same thing. Now I'm in a panic. I got home and called my accounts up on the 'net and both accounts are totally empty. Zero, zilch, not even a penny in either one. This is 4:30 in the afternoon, how much help do you think I'm gonna get at that time on a Friday? I got on the blower right away to find out what was going on. It seems that IJIT hasn't paid for a while and because he also hasn't gone and applied for the mortgage on his own, I'm still on it and still liable for it. AND they scooped close to a grand out of my accounts to make it right (with them). I've been on the phone with them for most of the week and it looks like I'm not going to get my money back. The mortgage has gone to collections and the property will probably be seized and sold and because my name is no longer on the title, whatever they get above what's owing goes directly to puss-nuts. The last gal that I spoke with on the phone told me that we were both getting Demand Letters regarding the mortgage. Perfect. Just what I need. Seems it never rains, it pours.
You know, I'm not a banker, never professed to be, but when the banker is sitting across the desk from me telling me what I have to do and I do it, I believe what they've told me. I also told the gal on the phone that the person that created this whole fiasco should be FIRED. Not now, but right F***in' now.
I think that I have to make an appointment with a lawyer.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
a much needed feel-good story
CALGARY - After years of hard work, Atar, 7, hasn't exactly had a dog's life.
With more than just a nose for narcotics, the wily canine has been working in Banff National Park as a Parks Canada search and rescue dog since 2006.
He is now slated for a late-March retirement after having sustained several injuries such as torn ligaments over the course of his career.
It's the desire of Mike Henderson, Parks Canada warden and dog handler, to retire Atar before he loses the ability to enjoy his job.
In his first year of service, Atar successfully tracked an illegal sheep hunter over a period of 16 hours, recovering all of the brass shell casings from the poacher's rifle.
Since then, he has proved himself to be a hard-working member of the Parks Canada team.
In the fall, Henderson and Atar tracked a nude man through the Sundance area. The man, believed to be under the influence of illegal substances, became lost in the forest overnight.
"We had a grizzly bear in the area which made it a little more interesting," said Henderson. The man was found and taken to hospital.
Other notable mentions from Atar's career include his resourceful nature. During a ski tour, he taught himself to open trail packs on the sly and nip sandwiches for himself.
"It was a lesson learned," said Henderson. "You've got to keep the dog fuelled."
Looking back at the career of Atar through the eyes of his co-workers like warden Bradley Bischoff, it's apparent the dog will be missed, "He's a very professional, very focused animal," said Bischoff.
During his years with Parks Canada, Atar has become "part of the pack" at the Banff office. As part of aggression training, those in the branch have taken turns laying quarry trails for the dog.
"In quarry training, we put on the guard arm," said Bischoff. "It's quite an adrenalin rush to have a full-grown German shepherd run at you and latch on."
An Edmonton Oilers jersey is the typical "uniform" for aggression training sessions. Henderson says the jersey was just handy from an employee's hockey bag one day and has been used ever since.
Atar will be retiring in Waterton Lakes National Park with his new family, also Parks Canada employees, Patti and Brian Spreadbury.
Henderson said Atar will be missed and after allowing suitable time for the canine to bond to his new family, intends to head down to the park to "say hi."
courtesy of the Calgary Herald
Friday, March 4, 2011
On arena etiquette
Was over at BR's lately, reading about 'Arena Etiquette', and it took me back to a couple of situations where one was painful, and both could have had the potential to be dangerous.
The first occured when I was at a cutting with my then boyfriend Bruce. Bruce had a cutting horse stud that never was going to amount to much of anything either as a sire or a cutting horse but neither I, nor the trainer, could tell him that, he wouldn't listen (he was what we in the horse business call a little 'barn blind'). For some reason that I can't recall we had taken both the stud and a mare even though she wasn't entered. Maybe because you could point her at a trailer across the yard and she'd go and bail in; him? not so much but if she was in there he couldn't get in there fast enough. Anyway, Bruce's trainer was going to show the horse and Bruce had to go home (he was a die-hard union man and was waiting for a call to go to work) so I was elected to warm up the horse and keep an eye on Rotten-Ronda (loving nickname, she was a real doll and her registered name was Doc's Rondo Leo, so Rotten-Ronda it was). We had been loping around the warm-up ring for a bit when a woman who should have kown better rode over to the arena fence to visit with someone who had just arrived to watch parking her horse perpendicular to the fence. I navigated around her the first time and had decided that the next time 'round I'd ask her to park parallel instead so that others could get around her safely when she put it in reverse and backed right into my knee, catching my kneecap under her horse's tail. You wanna talk about a puke or pass out moment. I had to ride over to the fence, get off and put my head between my knees for a few minutes. I had done some damage to my knee several years earlier while curling in high school (yes, we had to learn about it, and football, and baseball, and soccer, the list goes on) so it was a little weakened already and I really didn't need this on top of it. So here I was, two horses in tow and having to get them loaded and home by myself when the event was finished. Nice. The worst part was that the wench never even apologised and when I finally made it home Bruce had the audacity to yell at me for being late. What a jerk.
The next instance was when I was at the Parelli clinic that I posted about before. There was a guy there who was obviously a newbie that had a horse that someone sold him as gentle. Ol' horse was a retired outriding horse from the chuckwagon races so he had basically one speed, fast. That part never came to light until the afternoon because we had spent all morning on the ground doing ground work. Well we saddled up in the afternoon after lunch and the games began. We were going around the arena at a walk and my little horse was a little slower than him and instead of going to the inside and passing, he just stayed on my tailpipe and annoyed Indiana to no end. I cut across the arena to get away from him on more than one occassion, but he didn't seem to get the hint. Move up to a trot and now Indy is starting to get royally pissed so we cut across the arena again and about halfway across, she bogged her head and tried to drop me right there to which the instructor called ot, "Next time she's going to do that, let me know and I'll judge it!" Cheek.
The whole point I guess, is that there are some people out there who haven't got any courtesy or common sense.
The first occured when I was at a cutting with my then boyfriend Bruce. Bruce had a cutting horse stud that never was going to amount to much of anything either as a sire or a cutting horse but neither I, nor the trainer, could tell him that, he wouldn't listen (he was what we in the horse business call a little 'barn blind'). For some reason that I can't recall we had taken both the stud and a mare even though she wasn't entered. Maybe because you could point her at a trailer across the yard and she'd go and bail in; him? not so much but if she was in there he couldn't get in there fast enough. Anyway, Bruce's trainer was going to show the horse and Bruce had to go home (he was a die-hard union man and was waiting for a call to go to work) so I was elected to warm up the horse and keep an eye on Rotten-Ronda (loving nickname, she was a real doll and her registered name was Doc's Rondo Leo, so Rotten-Ronda it was). We had been loping around the warm-up ring for a bit when a woman who should have kown better rode over to the arena fence to visit with someone who had just arrived to watch parking her horse perpendicular to the fence. I navigated around her the first time and had decided that the next time 'round I'd ask her to park parallel instead so that others could get around her safely when she put it in reverse and backed right into my knee, catching my kneecap under her horse's tail. You wanna talk about a puke or pass out moment. I had to ride over to the fence, get off and put my head between my knees for a few minutes. I had done some damage to my knee several years earlier while curling in high school (yes, we had to learn about it, and football, and baseball, and soccer, the list goes on) so it was a little weakened already and I really didn't need this on top of it. So here I was, two horses in tow and having to get them loaded and home by myself when the event was finished. Nice. The worst part was that the wench never even apologised and when I finally made it home Bruce had the audacity to yell at me for being late. What a jerk.
The next instance was when I was at the Parelli clinic that I posted about before. There was a guy there who was obviously a newbie that had a horse that someone sold him as gentle. Ol' horse was a retired outriding horse from the chuckwagon races so he had basically one speed, fast. That part never came to light until the afternoon because we had spent all morning on the ground doing ground work. Well we saddled up in the afternoon after lunch and the games began. We were going around the arena at a walk and my little horse was a little slower than him and instead of going to the inside and passing, he just stayed on my tailpipe and annoyed Indiana to no end. I cut across the arena to get away from him on more than one occassion, but he didn't seem to get the hint. Move up to a trot and now Indy is starting to get royally pissed so we cut across the arena again and about halfway across, she bogged her head and tried to drop me right there to which the instructor called ot, "Next time she's going to do that, let me know and I'll judge it!" Cheek.
The whole point I guess, is that there are some people out there who haven't got any courtesy or common sense.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Legendary GI Pin-up Jane Russel Dies at 89
She gave the lads over-seas something to dream about, that's for sure. What a beautiful lady. Here's a link to a very good article about her.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
from my in box this morning, HT to Nobbs, a regular contributor
Middle East Riot Headwear
Some classic head gear going on here
EGYPTIAN LULZ
So just to outline here – these are makeshift helmets made by the Egyptians whilst scrapping in their current predicament. I shall guide you through these piece of registered army kit thus:
Some classic head gear going on here
EGYPTIAN LULZ
So just to outline here – these are makeshift helmets made by the Egyptians whilst scrapping in their current predicament. I shall guide you through these piece of registered army kit thus:
Your classic 1979 ‘Tribottle rag’ helmet – a must in any type of combat
A late 80’s ‘boxhat’. The bloke next to him doesn’t appear too sure of its effectiveness
A renaissance period piece of brickwear teamed with a black and cream scarf. Textbook
Im not sure that tuna sarnie he is about to lob is gonna cause to much destruction. Old skool 80’s broken bin helmet. I personally love the fact he needs to lift it up to see – does he spend the rest of the time walking in to things??
Textbook saucepaning with lifejacket combo. He does not take, ANY!!
I literally have no idea what this is.
And the winner by 100 miles. This bloke is going to war with 2 baguettes strapped to his ears and a ham salad roll sellotaped to his forehead. I’d def wanna be behind him if someone lobs a load of bricks at me
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)